


it's your heart

by miriya



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Banter, Fluff, Grand Romantic Gestures, M/M, Other, Teasing, nosy meddling coworkers, nyx does nothing by halves, pre-cornyx, who want the best for their grump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 06:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16826590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriya/pseuds/miriya
Summary: you were denying that your heart is a fountain and a fire.Cor's morning is decidedly ... floral.  In which Monica is a helper, and Dustin is an instigator, and Cor Leonis quietly, privately half-admits to An Emotion.  Pre-ship, for the Cor week promptflowers left at his doorstep with anonymous note saying “I miss you, my love”





	it's your heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the softest, silliest thing I will ever write for these doofuses. I played a bit fast and loose with the prompt, while still attempting to keep in the spirit of the prompt -- Nyx might not have signed it, but there's only one person who would _dare_. 
> 
> Also, I want more stories about the Crownsguard being buds.

"I'm revoking his rights," Cor grumbles, and scrapes at a thumbnail-sized sliver of petal that's been crushed into the black granite of the lounge countertop. It hardly makes a difference, but Cor tells himself it makes him feel better.

Monica smiles sweetly as she gently pushes aside another vase of flowers (purple-blue surrounding a sunny yellow core, as pretty now as they were the first time she set eyes on them) to reach for her favorite coffee cup. "Sounds to me like you're jumping to conclusions. Didn't you just say it was unsigned?"

There are flowers everywhere. _Everywhere_ ; fat glass cylinders lined up from one end of the counter to the other, spilling out onto the console table along the wall, the dining table in the center of the room, even on top of the refrigerator — their perfume almost heavy enough to taste. Still, the scene doesn't seem quite so overwhelming compared to this morning's vision of them overflowing the hall leading to Cor's office, avoiding the look of a memorial only by the handful of cheerful heart-shaped balloons tied around one of the makeshift vases.

Not florist bouquets either, but hand-picked from one of the fields out near the edge of the wall, the reward for hours of effort. Monica knows this because she'd been there, because she'd spent a full fifteen minutes peeling petals out of her backseat at an ungodly hour this morning, after Ulric had swooped off with the last armload, utterly charming in his delight over the prank and its potential effect. The coffee helps mitigate the lack of sleep — and it was worth it anyway, to watch Cor Leonis stumble sputtering into her own adjacent office with a card in his fist and an expression of baffled dismay she's witnessed maybe twice in her entire career.

"Well," Dustin chimes in, out of this loop entirely but smart enough to put two and two together. (Worse, just as intrigued by what happens when someone figures out exactly how to get under Cor's notoriously unflappable nerves.) "Now I'm curious, Marshal; what sort of rights _are_ we talking about?"

Cor's expression wavers, like he's fighting not to make that face again.

Relentless, Dustin lifts his attention from the overpriced, under-flavored protein bar he's unwrapping, and looks placidly at Cor. "And whose?" It's terrible sometimes, working in close proximity to two men capable of unflinching poker faces — sometimes for her, yes, but mostly for the people who end up on the wrong side of the Crownsguard. The secret, Monica knows, is that between the two of them, Dustin will win every time.

(She is also fairly certain she can hear teeth grinding beneath the friendly burble of the coffee maker that's currently saving the break room from a stretch of terrible silence.)

"Ulric," Cor finally says, and it sounds like the admission may have cost him a little. "I'm going to skin him. Alive, preferably."

"Best hope he makes it back from the front, then," Monica says lightly. "Word is, the Kingsglaive won't be back in Insomnia for at least a week."

Beneath the irritation, there's a flicker of worry in Cor's scowl, right there in the tightness around his eyes as he brushes past to retrieve some cold and lethally caffeinated thing from the refrigerator. It's the entire reason that she'd agreed to put in the effort, after all; for as blatant and unapologetic as Ulric can be with his attentions, for as unusual a target as he's _picked_ , Monica can't remember the last time Cor openly _worried_ about someone who didn't have a desk in the upper levels of the Citadel or a name on the Crownsguard payroll. She knows there are reasons for it — damned good ones, the kind someone with his history needs to keep from losing his mind — but … still.

Cor _cares_ , and that means something — means that whoever's on the receiving end is pretty special, or maybe the gaping void of his personal life is finally starting to take its toll. It hardly matters, she supposes. It's good to see him looking outwards. Looking at anything that isn't a life spent swinging back and forth between action and paperwork until he's ground down to nothing but dust.

(There's a bright white envelope is tucked into his jacket pocket, peeking out beneath the sharp crease of his bent elbow. Idly, she wonders what Ulric put there.)

"Ulric?" Dustin looks interested now. "You'll send half the organization into mourning, talking like that. Any evidence for those charges, Marshal?"

"It was Ulric," Cor mutters. "He thinks he's funny."

"Drautos is the only one with authorization for this level," Dustin points out. "Maybe _he's_ sweet on you."

( _Three times_ , Monica thinks, and nearly chokes on her coffee.)

Cor closes the refrigerator door with more force than strictly necessary — an unfortunate move that jars the bouquet resting on top of it toward the edge, and quite nearly leaves him with a face full of wildflowers. Cor catches it before it falls, pushing the vase back in place before seeming to reconsider the wisdom of it; ultimately, he pulls the flowers down and turns to find a better place for them.

Unfortunately, there isn't one. "Drautos wouldn't put in the effort," Cor says with a shake of his head. "Besides, it stinks of curry and fennel." 

"That's … oddly precise, Cor." Dustin sounds impressed, but also deeply, deeply amused. "Do you sniff all your correspondence?"

Monica finds herself wondering when Cor decided that was an _Ulric_ smell, but the thought is aborted by the strangled noise that he makes in response to the question. Dustin at least has the good grace to turn his attention elsewhere, studying one of the bouquets as he thoughtfully chews on his protein bar.

"You — can't smell it," Cor finally says, realization on his face as he straightens to his full height, patching together his obviously wounded sense of dignity. "More importantly, you're right about the authorization. _Someone_ had to let the bastard in."

"Sounds like you've got your morning cut out for you, then," Monica says, saluting Cor with her half-empty cup of coffee as she heads for the door. "Happy hunting, Marshal." She can feel his eyes on her as she passes, and knows that the gears are turning in his head — that she'll be the prime suspect when it comes to co-conspirators once Cor's shaken off the indignation of Dustin's interrogation. Of course it won't be too hard to dredge up the entryway security footage. 

Too bad it won't be much help.

-

It shouldn't surprise her that the rest of the day goes on as normal. No accusations, no questions about the incident, no indication at all to suggest that Cor hasn't put the matter from his mind. Dustin stops back in long enough to gather his jacket after a lengthy meeting with Clarus and retreats quickly after, and the rest of the executive staff files out at seven on the nose, leaving the city's safety in the hands of the general staff on the floor below. 

No surprise at all that she and Cor are, as usual, the last to abandon their desks and the endless cycle of paperwork that crosses them.

The knock against Monica's open door is quiet. Cor waits for her to look up before stepping inside, eyeing the sprawl of papers left waiting for her signature before he moves to the window. The sun has sunk beneath the massive wall surrounding the city, bathing the districts below in blue shadow and lighting up the citadel like the beacon of magic channeled between its towers. A poetic thought — but somehow, she doubts Cor has finally made his approach with _poetry_ in mind. "Heading out?"

"Soon enough, yes," Cor rumbles. By his stance and timbre, he's not upset. A little apprehensive, maybe. Tired, certainly, but that's been the bar for more years than she cares to count.

It's the apprehension that holds her attention; strange, the subtle ways that he can still manage to seem young. "Come to chase me off first?"

"I'm sure your cats are much better company."

"It's nice to have something to come home to." There's no edge to her words, but Cor's spine stiffens a little — a minute thing, only noticeable because she's known him for so damned long. Stubbornly, he keeps his eyes focused on the last sliver of sunset far, far away, and Monica imagines that he's thinking of someone in particular. It's not that she's a romantic — only a little, really, the kind that can be kept satisfied with gestures of affection in the form of glowing reviews and fluid teamwork on the battlefield. Grand love affairs are intriguing, as long as she's spectating.

In the silence that follows, she signs the last of her reports, and then rises to join him.

"I know better than to accuse you of irresponsibility," Cor says, "but I would have thought you beyond pranks by now."

"You're never too old to amuse yourself, Marshal," Monica replies lightly. "Then again, I'm not the one you've inspired, am I?"

Cor bends, just enough to tap the window sill. A dark smudge against the bland eggshell paint: the ghost of a boot print, swords arrayed. Damning enough evidence, she supposes. _How careless._ "How did he rope you in?"

" _Inspiration_ , Cor. What else is there?"

Cor snorts, and crosses his arms. "A lot of effort for a joke."

"It wasn't a joke to Ulric," she says. "I didn't — realize the two of you were that close."

"We aren't."

Monica glances at him. " _Fennel_ , Cor, really? I was in a car with him for an hour, and I didn't catch it at all."

"With all those … flowers, around, no wonder."

"It didn't hinder you though, did it?"

Cor doesn't have anything to say to that. He hunches in on himself, trying to claw back at his discomfort, and for a few heartbeats Monica wonders if she's pushed too hard. But the moment passes, and Cor doesn't leave, and after a while, he takes a deep breath and expels it in a long, shivering sigh. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Monica shrugs. "You're the target; it's your call. But for what it's worth? I think you should say yes, to whatever he wants to give you. Enjoy the attention, take him somewhere nice. Enjoy _yourself_ — gods know you're overdue for it."

Again, Cor's attention strays to the horizon, the line of his brow knitting in deep thought. Monica leaves him to it, moving to tidy the last of the day's work from her desk, an old habit worth hanging on to.

"A week, you said?" Cor's voice is soft, considering. _Good_.

Monica pulls her jacket from the back of her chair, and tamps down her smile to something small. "Plenty of time to consider appropriate retribution, Marshal." A beat. "It will be appropriate, yes?"

"That remains to be seen."

Monica doesn't laugh, but it's a close thing. Maybe she's witnessing the birth of a grand love affair — or maybe it's a grand disaster in the making. Either way, Cor could use the excitement. (She's got a sneaking suspicion that he might even thrive, in someone like Ulric's hands.) "Would you like to come over for dinner?" She asks on a whim. "I think Mr. Whiskers misses coating you in fur."

"Another day, perhaps," Cor says, and finally turns away from the window, recognizing that the conversation has come to an end. "A few more things to take care of. And anyway, it … seems I have some planning to do."

This time she _does_ laugh, clapping him on the arm as she passes on the way to the door. "Good luck, and for the love of light, take some of those home with you, all right?"

"A few, I suppose." 

"And if you need a hand—"

"—I know who to call on. Thank you … I think." His smile is faint but genuine, and Monica decides to leave it at that.

It's as good as she's likely to get from him. It's enough; more than worth it to see an old friend take a chance on something nice for his own sake. Worth, even, the fact that she's forced to drive home with all the windows rolled down in a stubborn attempt to blow the lingering scent of wildflowers from the upholstery.

(She's not _really_ a romantic, after all.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated as always -- and thanks for following along with my contributions to the week. Sadly, this is probably my last for this year's event, but I'm having an absolute blast reading what everyone's been putting together!


End file.
